Time's Up

by Janey Mack

  I nodded.

  “Bannon. Go ahead.”

  I took a step to the left to pass him so I could go to the guest room. So did he. I moved to the right. So did Hank. Blocking my path. He shook his head and pointed at his bedroom.

  Test Number One for Pandora? Bring it, baby.

  I went in.

  “Not possible. I’m out of town the next week, maybe two,” he said into the phone, closing the door behind me.

  I took a seat in the armchair next to the bed and waited. Now would be the ideal time to toss his room, but with my luck the place was rigged with pinhole cameras.

  I drummed my fingers on the chair.

  If Pandora sat another minute she’d cave.

  I got up, went into his bathroom and took a shower. Wrapped in a towel, I opened one of the dark wood vanity drawers in search of a blow-dryer.

  Oh no.

  Wrong drawer.

  Shiny black Chanel compacts were nestled in a Lucite tray.

  Worse, she was tidy, too.

  My makeup only looked that good for the thirteen seconds it took to get it out of the package. I closed the drawer and left the bathroom.

  Let’s not jump to conclusions.

  I panic-yawned.

  Don’t overreact. Armor up. Borrow a T-shirt, remember last night, and get your game face on. I went into the walk-in closet, turned right around and walked out.

  Duh.

  Makeup in his bathroom, of course there’ll be girl clothes hanging in his closet.

  I yawned and went back into his room. He’s a man. A smokin’ hot man. Of course, he’s had a couple hundred girlfriends or so. I just hadn’t considered he had one only recently dispatched.

  Cripes, I hope she was dispatched....

  I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

  I got the T-shirt and jeans I’d worn into work out of my shoulder bag, put them on, and lay down on the bed. A couple of minutes to clear my head and I’d be back in the game.

  I awoke with the sensation I was being watched and cracked an eye open. Hank sat across from me in the armchair, brooding over steepled fingers.

  I snapped my eye shut. Please don’t let me be drooling. I ran a hand over my face—dry, whew—and then into my hair so it didn’t look like I was checking. Pretty damp. At most I’d been out for maybe a hard ten.

  I sat up. “Hey.”

  “So, no?”

  “What?”

  “The clothes?” he said.

  Huh?

  He frowned. “What’d you think, Peaches?”

  “I—I didn’t think . . .” I went back into the closet. The sizes ranged from 2 to 6. Shirts, skirts, pants, and a couple dresses. All from Saks and Neiman Marcus, tags dangling.

  Hank stood in the doorway. “Drawers, too.”

  I opened one of the drawers next to the rack.

  Lingerie, all my size. 32C and size three panties in all shapes and colors. A racecar-red negligee.

  “Oh,” I breathed. “Oh.”

  This was beyond sexy. We’re talking heavy-metal medieval-style chivalry.

  I rubbed my forehead. “Hank, there’s, like, five thousand dollars’ worth of clothes in here.”

  He cocked his head. “Fifty-two hundred.”

  “It’s too much. I can’t. I . . . I just can’t.”

  “Put something on and come to dinner.”

  I went back into the bathroom, found a dryer and dried my hair. The makeup, in not one but two drawers of Lucite trays, was brand-new. Identical—even down to the drugstore lip balm—to the contents of my makeup bag.

  I chose a taupe satin swing dress and my own Pliner heels, which, if I’d had a fraction more cool than an ant under a magnifying glass, I would’ve spied next to the rest of my things that had been unpacked in the closet.

  One last shaky breath of half-exhilaration, half-terror and I went out to see how unmatched I was for Hank.

  Completely.

  Chet Baker crooned over the sound system. The dining room table was set. Candles, flowers—the whole nine yards. Hank poured two glasses of champagne in the kitchen, then twisted the bottle into the silver ice bucket.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “You’re beautiful.” He came around the counter and handed me a glass.

  Sounds like a toast to me. I clinked my glass to his and took a sip. So did he.

  We stood there, smiling at each other, drinking champagne. Hank took my glass and set it on the counter.

  “Maisie.” He took my hand in his. “For me, time is a finite and precious commodity. Right now, I have it.”

  He can’t possibly be serious. “Hank, you can’t just move me in here. . . .”

  He cocked his head, waiting.

  Letting me do the math. My family. Mom’s rules, Da’s laws, my brothers’ ways, and where was I?

  “Do you want to be here?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what’s the trouble, Bubble?”

  I started to laugh, really laugh. Giddy with the joy of it.

  He grinned. “Dinner can wait.”

  Naked, Hank stepped into his jeans. “You want dinner in bed?”

  “No,” I said, pulling his T-shirt over my head. “It’s too pretty not to eat at the table. Hank, the clothes and everything else—”

  “The credit,” Hank disappeared into the closet, “belongs to Wilhelm.”

  “Wilhelm?”

  He reappeared in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned. “He’s an . . . er . . . spoil of war.”

  Barefoot, we went into the dining room.

  “Tell me about Wilhelm,” I said, while he got dinner.

  “He butlered for royal relatives—ambassador style—in Colombia. A cartel took over the neighborhood, slaughtered the family, and kept Wilhelm as a valet for the drug lord. I found him on a housecleaning expedition, chained up in the basement. He’s worked for me, sporadically, ever since.”

  My boyfriend is cooler than liquid nitrogen at Ice Station Zebra.

  “When do I get to meet him?”

  “That’s up to him. He’s a solitary guy.” Hank set a plate in front of me. Beef tenderloin, lobster mashed potatoes, and tiny haricots verts. “Let’s eat.”

  Chapter 37

  Wednesday morning Hank came into the kitchen with damp hair and a towel wrapped around his waist. He set the keys to the Super Bee on the counter. “Let me take you to lunch.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” Odds of you bargaining your way onto my photo shoot of ultimate humiliation? Zilch. “I’ll take a rain check.”

  He crossed the room to the sideboard, opened a cabinet door, and removed a Glock. He came back and set it on the counter next to the keys. “What’s the second biggest mistake gun owners make?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I’m not carrying concealed to a photo shoot with Chicago’s anti-gun mayor.” I picked up the piece, hefted it, and laid it back down. “There will be PR people, the photographer and crew, Coles will have his staff and bodyguards. . .”

  Hank looked mulish. “Coles is as dirty as they come.”

  “Anyway,” I said, trying to be funny, “I’m armed with situational awareness.”

  He strode into the kitchen, opened a drawer under the microwave and waited. Instead of the assorted kitchen junk, it held a small arsenal of semi-lethal weapons.

  An awfully diplomatic way to say I have the situational awareness of a dead bird.

  I looked over the array. Taser, stun gun, batons, animal repellent, sap gloves, brass knuckles, Kubotans, nylon cable-tie cuffs, handcuffs, a flat sap, blackjacks, and blades of every shape and size.

  The cable-ties and flat-grip sap were the most innocuous items to hand. I slipped the ties into my cargo pants and picked up the illegal-to-carry leather-wrapped flat sap.

  “You sure about that?” Hank said. “The grip’s too big for you.”

  That may be, but at least if I get caught with it I can pawn it off as one of those chichi architectural weig
hted bookmarks. “It’ll be fine.”

  “You ever use one?”

  “No, darling,” I said. “I haven’t, actually.”

  He slid the leather loop over my fingers and closed my hand on the grip. “Strike flat. Target elbow joint, collarbone, groin slap. Swing through the target.”

  I bit back a smile and nodded soberly.

  He twisted the sap in my hand. “Don’t let your hand roll on the grip. You’ll edge your target. Laceration’s not as effective.”

  “Got it, chief,” I said.

  “Sure you do.”

  Negative Werks was a top-dollar photo studio in a gigantic brownstone. I entered through the blackened glass doors and was stopped by two of Talbott Cottle Coles’s bodyguards.

  Before I had a chance to get nervy I was carrying the illegal sap in my handbag, Sterling Black’s leggy brunette stepped between them. “Let her through.” She gave me the once-over. “Good. You wore your ‘before’ uniform.”

  She led me down an exposed brick hallway, chattering nonstop, “There will be seven mini-shoots. The first two with His Honor. We’re budgeting a couple hours including breaks. The next five will be you, solo, in each potential meter-maid costume for the City’s Choice campaign. Two hours for that, tops. I’m guessing you’ve never modeled?”

  “Nope.”

  “Of course not.” She puffed a long-suffering sigh. “Just stand where they tell you, do what they say, and every so often say something out loud like ‘hello’ so your smile doesn’t get tight. And don’t giggle.”

  Gee, that’ll be tough. This is gonna be a laugh riot.

  “Hair and makeup right after Sterling’s apex nexus.”

  “Come again?” I said.

  “His spearheaded effort geared to achieve amalgamation of multilevel goals.”

  Corporate-speak. How many ways can a man say “meeting”?

  She opened one of the double metal stage doors and I entered a hive of activity.

  A dozen people in black pants, black ball caps, and black Negative Werks T-shirts were positioning lights and fans, taping down cords, clicking light meters, and testing flashes in front of a billboard-sized white wall that curved down into a spotless section of white floor.

  The far wall of the studio was floor to ceiling semitruck-sized garage doors that opened out onto the waist-high chain-linked parking lot behind the building. Two men wrestled a parking meter box through the open doors.

  Proof Coles’s bodyguards were just for show. Only complete no-loads would leave that kind of access unattended. So where was the man of the hour?

  In a screened-off section to my left, a group of Brooks Brothers suits raced for repetitive stress injuries on their Droids. Farther down, a flock of women surrounded Coles at a salon station in the corner, working on his hair and makeup while he flirted with a production assistant.

  “Maisie McGrane!” Sterling Black strode across the giant cement-floored room to give me a showy hug. “How you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He adjusted his cuff and rotated the silver Superman S cuff link to its upright position.

  “So, am I next after Coles for hair and makeup?”

  “Those are his own people.” Sterling smirked as we watched another layer of hair spray applied to Coles’s coif and patted reverently into place. “You’ll get yours done off-set while we’re taking some head shots of Coles.”

  “Where’s Bliss?”

  “Still touring with Leticia and your brother. Lord, the ratings have been off the charts! Unbelievable market potential.” He put an arm around my shoulder and said, “C’mon. Let me introduce you to Talbott.”

  The production assistant saw us coming and alerted Coles. He raised his hands in surrender. “Enough, ladies. No matter how much magic you work, there’s no turning this ugly phiz into George Clooney.”

  The hair and makeup staff giggled and gooed all over him.

  There are always women desperate enough to misinterpret slime for allure.

  Talbott Cottle Coles rose, waiting for the production assistant to remove the paper makeup bib from his collar and straighten his tie. He walked out into the center of the room and waited for us to come to him. “Well, well, well. Maisie McGrane.” He put out his hand. “Where do we begin?”

  I could start by kicking you in the shins and work my way up.

  I took his hand. A perfect political handshake, dry, firm with two pumps, while maintaining eye contact the length of the shake. “Please, call me Talbott. I believe I may owe you an apology. I lost my temper at our first meeting, and for that I’m sorry.”

  But not for the felonious assault?

  I smiled. I’d die before I’d say “water under the bridge.”

  Sterling did it for me, clapping us each on the back. “Bygones and bullydogs. All in the past. And now? Symbiosis, baby.” He stepped away from us and held up his hands. “People! Can you give us fifteen?”

  The photog and his assistants were wise to Sterling’s SOP and hit the bricks. The guys struggling with the parking machine set it down and left. Coles’s staffers naturally thought they were exempt, so Sterling went over to remind them of their inferiority.

  Coles reached in his pocket and pulled out a gold cigarette case. He took a cigarette out, closed the case, tapped it on top, and replaced the case in his jacket pocket. Next came a gold Colibri lighter. “I almost ought to thank you.” He lit the cigarette. “Except Sterling’s the one who spun it my way.” He blew a cloud of smoke in my face.

  “You know they make electronic ones now,” I said, flexing my fingers, itching to pop him.

  “Yeah. For all the little law-abiding lambs holding their little law-abiding balls.”

  What I wouldn’t give to have that on tape.

  His lips rolled back in a leer, showing teeth so unnaturally white they looked like dentures. “My polling numbers are through the roof, campaign contributions rolling in.”

  Then why are you trying to sell off the Local #56?

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “It is.” He exhaled a column of smoke toward the ceiling in exultation.

  Having cleared the shoot bay, Sterling joined us.

  A thin guy in black jeans, tee, and cap walked toward us from the open garage doors.

  “Hey, buddy! You can’t be in here now.” Sterling threw a thumb toward the steel stage doors. “Beat it.”

  Instead of veering toward the doors, the guy came closer. He ripped the black ball cap from his head and pulled a double-edged serrated blade from behind his back. “I have a message for Coles.”

  The first reaction to evil is confusion.

  And we were all freaking confused.

  There are only two directives when confronted with a knife. Distance and mobility. I dropped into a defensive stance.

  He was five-nine, one-hundred-fifty, late thirties. Black hair turning gray, with a weird little half-beard, half-mustache that accentuated his ferrety features. There was a fanatical look in his brown eyes, but he wasn’t buzzing with crazy.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  He moved in close to Coles. “You think you can screw with the Local #56? Sell them out to the Traffic Sheik Bureau like you did the meter maids?”

  “Let’s calm down,” Sterling said, hands up. “Talk about this.”

  Ferret pressed the tip of the knife beneath Coles’s chin. “The Transit Union’s never gonna let that happen.”

  “Then why are you here?” Coles scoffed.

  Unsure, Ferret lowered the knife.

  Coles slapped him. Hard, open-palmed.

  Whoa. Didn’t see that coming.

  Neither did Ferret.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Coles followed up with a backhanded return that echoed through the studio. “Threatening me—the goddamn mayor of Chicago—with a goddamn blade?”

  Ferret fingered the blood at the corner of his mouth, straightened, and spat. He waved the knife in my direction.
“You think beating up a meter maid makes you tough?”

  Sterling took a step closer to me. To protect or for protection, I wasn’t sure. I turned into him, reached across my body into my purse, and eased the sap out. Gripping it in my right hand, I hid it along my side.

  Coles eyed Ferret like a maggot in a baby crib. “No. What makes me tough is that I fucking own Chicago Labor. And selling a small-potatoes bullshit sub-union of overpaid bus drivers to private industry is going to make me a goddamn national hero.”

  Ferret’s face went white with fury. “You’ll burn for killing Nawisko.”

  “Who?” Coles scoffed. “The Amalgamated Transit Union doesn’t give a mouse’s shit about that blue-jacket asshole.” Coles’s eyes glittered. He leaned down and put his face close to Ferret’s. “So you can go fuck yourself on the bus you rode in on.”

  The knife flashed.

  Coles’s jacket split apart over his left breast. His face crinkled in confusion.

  Sterling’s hands went to his head. “Holy—”

  Ferret whirled from Coles and thrust the knife at Sterling, who lurched backwards.

  Collarbone. I stepped up and swung the sap. Ferret turned, my grip rolled, and I landed an edge blow against the side of his head.

  It was like hitting a flower pot full of pudding.

  His knees buckled. The knife fell from his fingers and bounced away on the cement floor. He wobbled for a moment, then fell facedown, landing with a wet and awful-sounding thunk.

  I had the cable ties out of my cargo pocket and between my teeth before the air left Ferret’s lungs. I dug my knee into the middle of his back, jerked his deadweight arms behind him, and secured the cables on his wrists. The thwip of the zip tie sweeter than a tiger’s purr.

  Wristed. In less than forty seconds.

  I stood up.

  Sterling stared at me with eyes as wide as a couple of silver-dollar pancakes. “Holy Mother of God!”

  Coles stood looking down at his immobilized and unconscious attacker, fingering the sliced breast of his suit coat, directly above his heart. A dark mottled red crept up his neck. “You come here and threaten me in my house, you insignificant fuck?”